North by Northwest
by Germanystuck
Summary: Ludwig Beilschmidt, a German immigrant in New York, living under the roof of your typical lower class American family, the Jones', makes a bit of cash on the side with common detective work. Finding lost pets, lost jewelry, those sorts of things. Amelia apparently has other ideas when she brings in Arlovskaya...and a murder case. Could Feliciano Vargas really be responsible?
1. Chapter 1

It was one of those storybook dark and stormy nights in the city of New York. The sort of nights that make you particularly inclined to lose your thoughts while staring at the rain dripping against your window. Or perhaps at your half-empty glass of bourbon as you wait for your cigarette to flicker out. To be honest, I wouldn't know. No one likes to hear about a German immigrant with too much time on his hands, and too much alcohol in his system.

Of course, boozehounds seem to be rising in number, especially around this part of New York. People too poor to eat a good meal down cheap liquor instead. Can't imagine what they would think of me back in Germany if I took that up. And I've got a brother to look after. A brother who thinks I'm too much of a daisy to handle factory work, but a brother nonetheless.

Besides, the only reason we've got a decent place to stay is because of the Jones'. Managed to scrounge an apartment space for us above their diner, so long as we pay rent when we can and stay out of trouble. I can't bring in most of the rent myself because of Gilbert's refusal, but I manage to give Mrs. Jones a hand with her baking, and she appreciates that just fine. I balance out the checkbook for the diner too, as Mr. Jones swears up and down he isn't so good with math.

There's also another way I make a little bit of cash on the side, but it's nothing Mrs. Jones nor my brother would like to hear. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a bootlegger or some sort of gunman for the mafia. I do what most folks around here would call "private investigating", but the most a young kid like me can get are lost pets, nicked jewelry, things like that. Wasn't my idea, by the by, and I'll get hell from Mrs. Jones if she ever finds out what I'm doing, but Amelia Jones is one stubborn girl. Said she was getting bored just waitressing all the time, and she noticed how good I am at finding things around the house, so here we are.

To be honest, they're just a messy family, and I'm just good at organizing, but I don't want to argue with her. She's a tougher nut than her brother, and Alfred would fly off the handle if he ever found out I'm toting his kid sister around the alleys of New York City looking for missing dogs.

The lights out on the street are flickering again, now that I notice, stretching from my seat at the desk. I've been counting funds for what feels like hours, yet I can't quite tell how late it is by the sky. The clock we brought from home sits near the window, and I notice it's been about two hours past supper. A few more hours and Gilbert would be home.

Which was why the knock at the door was unexpected, and frankly, I'm glad no one's in this room to see me jump in my seat. "Come in," I call, shuffling my papers just in the case that it's Mr. Jones wanting to see my progress.

It isn't, and I expect this would be the part of those new detective novels where the narrator describes a "bombshell blonde" slinking into their office, her face covered by the shadows in the room. Smoke from their cigarette rises, and in one puff, a sultry whisper emerges from their lips.

This is reality, however, and instead, I'm face to face with Alfred F. Jones, blonde, but tragically far from a "bombshell", and the only smoke in the room is the stench from his work clothes. I eye the grease stains on his apron wearily. He obviously had clean up duty at the diner and didn't think to clean _himself _up before traveling to my apartment. Perhaps his greasy fingerprints on my door handle could be used for practice, I think, gritting my teeth at the idea of a slippery knob.

"Lud!" he says, as if pronouncing the remaining three letters of my name is a struggle for him, "Can't be healthy to stay caged up in this room all day. Have you moved this week?"

I open my mouth to retort, but my peripheral vision catches the several empty Coke bottles on the floor beside my chair. I could still make an argument, really, as Alfred isn't the brightest bulb in the box, but eventually I'd have to remove myself from this chair, and God knows those bottles are coming with me. Instead, I change the subject. "Have _you_ washed the grease out of your hair _this week_?"

Alfred's lips curve upwards, "Look who's talking. I don't think I've seen your hair any other way."

He's got a point, and I offer a smile. Not a kind one, mind you. "It's Pomade. Tell me, what brand are you using? Hamburger Grease?"

I'm sure he would have offered up a comment had my door not swung into his back, but thankfully Amelia has the sense to interrupt him. Or rather the timing. Either way, Alfred was currently hunched over and wheezing, and that was perfectly alright with me.

"Lud!" Clearly the entire Jones family had issues with pronouncing Ludwig.

Amelia is remarkably like her brother in looks. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a round face, a wide smile. The only differences were the curls that bounced against her cheeks, the head of height between her and Alfred, and the few years that separated them. Amelia was three years Alfred's junior, making her sixteen, but she surely doesn't act it. At least, not around me. Alfred always makes jabs at her about hanging around me so often, and to be honest, I can't imagine why she does it. It isn't like I'm one of her school playmates, and I'm four years her senior.

Regardless, Amelia doesn't mind dragging me around the dirtiest alleys in New York City. Says it's a sign of friendship that we can do these sorts of things together. I don't know about that.

Amelia's hands thunk onto my desk, rattling my near-empty bottle of Coke. As per usual, her nose is inches away from my own when she sings, "We've got a case!"

I shoot a glance at Alfred, still nursing his back. He's heard what Amelia said, but I don't think it's processed yet. Amelia notices my gaze, and I can see the tell-tale tightening in her shoulders. I cough. "A case of what?"

"Yeah, 'Melia." Alfred says, giving the both of us a dirty look, which, quite frankly, I don't deserve, "Case of what?"

She bites at her lip, looking at me for the answer. I shrug my shoulders slightly. "Case of flour?" Amelia tries, looking sheepish.

Alfred's eyes narrowed further. Perhaps it was the lighting in here. Or, perhaps, he was finally catching on to Amelia and I. Either way, there was only one lamp in here. Sort of claustrophobic really.

"What are you two up to?" Alfred has the sense to draw himself back up and cross his arms.

If I didn't know Alfred for what he was, I'd be hot under the collar at that look. A typical elder-brother glare that I've only seen from Gilbert twice in my life. Neither times for good reason. It isn't my fault I'd rather clean than hang around downtown.

Amelia's feet shuffle, a lip pout growing. She knows just the tricks to pull on Alfred. Really, we all do, but I'll be six feet under before I'm caught pouting at anyone. If anything, Alfred would just break into hysterics. Which might be a nice distraction, but I'm not sure my pride is worth the risk.

Apparently though, Alfred isn't in the mood for Amelia's tricks. "Spill," he snaps, jerking his head.

"Well," Amelia says, playing at a curl, "We're...making call-girl appointments?"

It's suddenly very hot in my small office. I loosen my tie.

Alfred's eyebrows shoot up, "You expect me to believe _he'd_ do something like that? _Ludwig_?"

I suppose I'd be relieved he's sticking up for me, but I'm not sure I like the way he said that. "Amelia," I try, "We should tell him."

She looks none too pleased about that. In fact, she looks like she'd love to hang me. "He's my _Sugar Daddy_."

Wouldn't mind a fan in this room, now that I think about it.

Alfred snorts. "_Right_. Beilschmidt, are you in cahoots with my sister?"

I've never had great luck, but today seems to be testing that, considering the door opens for a third time that day, and it isn't Gilbert.

Alfred doesn't notice, and chides, "At a loss for words?" until his head turns, and I can see him trip over himself as he holds back a yelp. Heels click softly as they approach my desk, and my eyes trace their petite frame upwards from their blackened dress coat. I'd make eye contact if I could find them, but sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat prevent my analysis. Her silvery-blonde hair trickles from her shoulder when her lips speak, "Mr. Beilschmidt."

You'd think I'd be accustomed to speaking to women by now with Amelia for a partner, but there's a large difference between her, and...whomever seems to know my name. "That would be me," I mumble out, and my foot makes the mistake of kicking over those Coke bottles. One rolls to the window. No one moves to grab it. I can't remember what moving feels like.

Apparently confirming my name was an unsatisfactory response, as her mouth twitches softly. Considering it didn't sound like a question to begin with, I can't help but agree. Ya blew it, Beilschmidt. What would your brother think?

Amelia breaks the growing silence. "This is Miss. Arlov...Arlovsk...?"

"Arlovskaya," she says, but there's a bite to her words. Could be the accent. My throat dries as I remember my own.

Again, Amelia seems unfazed. Her hands clap together. "She's here about a case!"

I hear myself say, "Is that so?" but I'm nearly sure no one else does. Something tells me she isn't looking for a lost cat.

For better or worse, we can all hear Alfred croak, "What the Hell is going on?"

Arlovskaya's sunglasses click as she folds them into her pockets. Her eyelashes flicker. "You are a detective, yes?"

"I... find dogs, mostly," I mutter, as if that qualifies as an answer.

Amelia pips up. "Real dogs! Pigs! Jailbirds!"

"No!" Alfred looks homicidal as my voice cracks. I clear my throat. "No, really," I explain, straightening my tie as Arlovskaya scans me, "Pets. Missing things. Common work."

This settles terribly with everyone in the room. Except for the dust, which, apparently, settles on it's own in this office. Why couldn't I have taken up cleaning houses for extra money?

Arlovskaya bites at her lip, smearing her red lipstick, but her eyes remain strong. She looks as though she might say something, but then the next thing we all hear is the sharp swipe of a knife finding it's way into my desk. I hesitate to move. Her hand grips the handle. I can't tell if Alfred's afraid or mildly infatuated. Scratch that. I can't tell if both the Jones siblings are afraid or infatuated. Incredible.

I look up at her slowly, wondering if I should raise my arms in surrender. I refrain. She speaks. "You're a detective, _yes_?"

"By the textbook definition," I say, "I suppose I am. Would you mind removing your knife?"

Arlovskaya's head tilts as if I've said something funny. I don't say funny things. I'm German. The knife slips back out of the wood, and she pockets it, pulling out an old photograph in replacement. She flicks it towards me. "I need a detective."

The picture is of a young man, presumably around my age, with dangling mouse-brown hair, and a slim face. I'd say he was Slavic, but it didn't seem to fit. He's got a sheepish smile, and I can't help but worry we aren't being hired to catch him in some criminal act.

As if on cue with my thoughts, Arlovskaya says, "He's dead."

Alfred clutches at his chest. Amelia looks fascinated.

I think I feel a stomachache coming on.


	2. Chapter 2

About five seconds after my contemplation on my stomach ache, Alfred keeled over onto the floor. Apparently I attract useless-older-brother types. Amelia manages to sit Arlovskaya in my armchair while I pull Alfred up from the floor and carry him to the couch. I wonder momentarily if she'll start ripping up my upholstery with that knife of hers. I like that armchair.

I turn back to face Arlovskaya, who is, and I notice she's none too thrilled about this, inches from a very curious Amelia, who may or may not be...smelling her. "Er," I say, adjusting my suspenders, "Miss...Arlovskaya. Have you tried going to the police about this?"

Her expression mirrors that of my mother's the one evening Gilbert cut up her favorite blouse for a bird's nest. Arlovskaya fingers the photograph, "The police...are unresponsive towards crime in my family," she says, "You have heard of the Braginsky's?"

That twitch I've been developing for a good month on the side of my nose rears it's head. The Braginsky family _happens_ to be a infamous Russian mafia that takes up headquarters about a mile into the slick parts of downtown. We all know about it. It's hard not to.

Amelia's staring at Arlovskaya like she's some sort of museum piece. "I have," I manage, finding my way to the desk chair.

"Toris was a member," Arlovskaya says quietly, flipping over the photograph. Amelia plucks it from her hands. She's definitely got the nerves of her mother.

I'm assuming Toris is the name of the deceased. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Her eyes roll, "He was a useless man."

Amelia represses a giggle. I can't help but wonder if insanity runs in her family.

"He signed the back of this picture with a heart," Amelia smiles softly, and to my amazement, nudges Arlovskaya, "Natalya's a nice name."

_Natalya_ Arlovskaya looks rather put off by this entire situation, and, if I'm not mistaken, tears are forming at the corner of her eyes. I shoot Amelia a look. She falls back. "Sorry."

Natalya blinks roughly, squeezing her eyes shut. "Will you be helping me or not?

I can't see how we'd be of any help, but it isn't as if we can say no. I would love to tell her no, and redirect her to some other detective in the district so I could go back to crunching numbers. However, I wouldn't like to know what happens to someone who denies the mafia of assistance. I don't give her an answer. "Do you have any leads?"

"Any clues that might help us solve this?" Amelia asks eagerly, as if we've already accepted, "Ooh, and do you think we'd see the crime scene?"

"_Amelia_," I warn, but Natalya holds up a hand.

"Our family has many enemies," Natalya says, "It would be hard to guess."

Alfred groans from the couch. I concur. "...Couldn't we find a _seasoned_ detective to assist you? I don't mean to say we don't want to help you, but this isn't really our field of work."

Amelia glares at me as if I've offended the entire room. Natalya scoffs. "No detective in New York City helps Braginsky's."

And yet she assumes we want to, I think, running a hand through my slicked back hair. "Have you been to the Smith's?"

She nods, crossing her legs and apparently ignoring my distain. "I will pay you, yes? You're in need of money, aren't you?"

I can't deny that, but I'm positive money isn't worth getting tangled up in organized crime. "That isn't my concern," I start, but Amelia interrupts me, grasping Natalya's hands.

"We'd do it for free," Amelia says, "Isn't that right, Ludwig?"

Like Hell it is. I grimace, "Amelia, you're only sixteen. I can't be held responsible for getting you involved with a murder case." _I_ don't want to get involved with a murder case.

"Sixteen is old enough!" Amelia says, "Ma's always telling me to be more responsible anyway!"

"No," Alfred snaps. I had forgotten he was over there.

"Al, _come on_," Amelia says, standing, "Are you both going to chicken out on Natalya? She came all this way because she needs help! What sort of men _are _you?"

Logical. Sensible. Mature. Rational. I can keep going.

This apparently hits Alfred harder than it does me. He sits up, and meets my eyes. "Lud and I will do it. You can stick back, 'Melia, you're just too young for these things. Right, Lud?"

I agree with him, but I'd rather not be a part of a decision between siblings. "He has a point, Amelia."

Her foot stamps, ruffling her dress, "I'm going to come whether you'd very well like me to or not."

I can see a lightbulb go off above her head. She rounds on Natalya. "You'd like me to help, wouldn't you? You've seen how these two get on," she gestures at Alfred, "He even fainted!"

Alfred flushes. So much for making a good first impression.

Natalya seems to be considering Amelia's offer very seriously. She appeals to me, "I will make sure she is protected."

Amelia shakes with excitement, "See? And you can't say no to our client!"

I very well can, but I'm not going to get into it with Amelia. Alfred doesn't seem impressed either, but he says, "We'll talk about it."

"Not a single lead?" I ask again, hoping the answer has changed.

Natalya's hands are turning something over in her pockets. "My brother did say one thing," she says, "I am the youngest, so the family does not tell me much."

That explains her connection to Amelia. I nod.

"My brother is a good man. I have to follow him to make sure he is safe," Natalya says, and I hear the click of the switch on her blade, "Once, he went to a man's shop. People had told us they were part of another family. The man denied it. Brother said he wouldn't hesitate to send people over if he found out otherwise. He had two younger grandsons. Brother thought that one of them might do this as a lowly...initiation."

She clicks her tongue, "Families do not murder others for petty reasons like that."

No, but I'm sure _robbery and general law-breaking_ is perfectly acceptable. Spare me the appeal. These "families" are bad news for very good reason, even if they do seem to have a code. Of course, I don't say that, but my opinion still stands. "Did these grandson's have names?"

Natalya bites her cheek, "Fely...Felycyan?" her eyebrows furrow, "Piece of paper."

I hand her a sheet from my desk and a pen. If it wasn't for the murderous look behind her eyes, she'd be an endearing little sister, I'm sure. She jots down a few words, crossing out the ones that are deemed less than satisfactory, and holds it out for me. I take it.

"Feliciano Vargas?" I try. My English has improved in my years here, but that name throws my own tongue for a loop. The hell kind of name is "Feliciano"? I suppose I don't have room to talk.

Natalya nods, "He works at his grandfather's restaurant. Sells pizza under that name. Vargas."

Alfred snaps his fingers, "I know that place! Man, talk about great food, you know? I took Amelia there a few times."

The ability Alfred has to think with his stomach at a time like this is truly inspiring.

"Did they appear to be a part of _organized crime_, though?" I ask.

He shrugs, and taps his chin in thought, "Not really? They were speaking Italian half of the time, and they were both making eyes at Amelia. Even the...oh, what's-his-name? Lovino? Shouted at about everyone but Amelia and I, save a few other girls in the place. Real nice people."

Natalya's eyes looked like daggers, directed especially at Alfred. He held up his hands in protest, "Th-that doesn't mean they couldn't have done it!"

"Yeah," Amelia says, with a look of disgust, "Both of those brothers were on _active duty,_ too."

"...They're in the military?" I ask, "How are they managing to work at the restaurant?"

Apparently that isn't at all what Amelia meant, and Alfred looks torn between having a laugh at me, and scolding Amelia for God knows what. Amelia giggles, "Of course Lud wouldn't know slang for _womanizers. _Sorry Lud."

"Lud, is that your mother's perfume or something?" Alfred says, grinning, "I swear I just caught a whiff of something fruity."

I'm very aware of his joke. Natalya seems to be sniffing the air suspiciously. I shoot him a look, "You're mistaken."

Natalya fiddles with her switchblade in her palm, "What is "womanizers" meaning?"

"They don't know when to ease up on their lines towards the ladies," Amelia says, brushing her hair behind her ear, "Real desperate for a date."

Natalya nods, but I'm positive she's nowhere nearer to understanding than she was two minutes ago. She can't be that much older than Amelia, now that I look at her. Someone that young shouldn't be involved in these sorts of things...much less be raised by a mafia. "We'll look into the Vargas', Miss Arlovskaya," I say, jotting down my personal number, "And if there's anything else you think of, don't hesitate to call." _Please hesitate._

She tucks the card into her pocket and nods, her body language sheepish while her face maintains that hard, concentrated look. "Thank you."

"We _do_ need the details of the crime, however," I say, as unfortunate as that statement is, "Would you be able to give me that information?"

Natalya nods, and Amelia dashes to grab the notebook from my desk. She plops down eagerly beside her and exclaims, "Give us the megillah!"

"She means tell us all you can," Alfred says, apparently helping himself to my Coke as he snaps the cap off against the couch, "With detail. If you'd rather write it, that's fine. We just need to know his name, the place he was last seen, cause of death, those kind of things."

He takes a long swig, and sighs, handing me the bottle. I'm not particularly fond of drinking after others, but then again, I'm not particularly fond of the fact we're going through with this. I slump, and take a drink with a groan. "Why are we doing this?"

"I don't like Amelia getting involved," Alfred whispers, fiddling with the bottlecap, "But man, ain't it swell to think we might be...I don't know, _heroes _for this gal? Hardboiled detectives! Out to catch thugs! Ain't it?"

Alfred and Amelia are more alike than either of them _and_ myself would like to admit. "_Heroes_?" I say, taking another careful drink, "You think so?"

Alfred looks sheepish now, rubbing at the back of his neck, "Ah, I don't know, man. I just wanna help people, you know?"

It's the same for me, but I don't need to be running off head first into trouble to prove I'm a decent person. Balancing the books is heroic enough. "Just promise me you won't do anything stupid," I say, but my muttering falls on deaf ears. Alfred's face is lax with a day dream. Typical.

Natalya hands the notebook back to Amelia, acting as though touching it any longer might kill her if she doesn't kill it first. "Is that all?" she asks, staring me dead in the eyes.

Amelia says, "This looks like a good start!" so I nod, standing to offer a hand up to Natalya. She declines, rising on her own.

"I will keep in touch," she says, pulling her brimmed hat down to cover her eyes as she sets off downstairs where the rainfall awaits.

The apartment is silent as the heel clicks echo down the staircase, but the moment we hear the front door shut, Alfred groans through his hand, "When the Hell were you going to tell me you were a couple of gumshoes and why wasn't I in on it?"

Amelia has that far-off look in her eyes again, "_Gumshoes_," she repeats, "Isn't that fantastic?"

"_No,_" I say indignantly, "It is not _fantastic_, Amelia. Do you realize what we've gotten ourselves into?"

"Let the kid have her moment," Alfred says, relaxing into the couch, "Maybe it'll be open-and-shut."

I'd like to have shouted: _You-were-reprimanding-her-for-this-earlier-you-son -of-a-bitch_, but fortunately for him and most likely the several other tenants in this building, Gilbert interrupts. "You didn't tell me you had a girlfriend!" Gilbert says, clunking into the room, soot and dust in hand, "Slim, blonde? I knew you had it in you. She's even got that glare you do!"

My look of mortification only confused him further when Alfred and Amelia burst into laughter. I wonder if I could manage a boat trip back to Germany.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few days drug by slowly. Arlovskaya had come by on a Thursday, and Alfred and I had both agreed there was no way we could slip away from the diner during the week. Neither of us felt comfortable leaving Mrs. Jones with the grunt work, and it wasn't as though we could tell her what we were heading out to do. By the time Sunday came around, Amelia was completely uncontainable, jostling with excitement wherever she went.

"She almost blew our cover," Alfred says as we head out from the double doors of the diner, "Last night at dinner. Told Ma how excitable she was for tomorrow. Ma asked why, on account of me telling her I was just taking you both out for pizza, and Amelia's been there loads of times."

"I couldn't help it," Amelia whines from behind me, crossing her arms, "I've been looking over Natalya's notes since Thursday!"

"You're lucky she believed my lie about the pizza to begin with!" Alfred says, "Everyone knows Italian's aren't open on Sundays! Bunch of Catholics, for God sake's."

That's the only thing I understand about Catholics.

"We just have to hope the Vargas' will be available," I say, with the assumption that like most immigrants in the district, home and the family business are in the same building, "Otherwise we're going to have to talk to the Braginsky's."

Alfred mimes a shudder, "Let's save them for last."

The area of the city we're walking to isn't the worst of it all, but it's nowhere near the best. Most of your local crime headquarters have set up shop about a block or two around the outskirts, but, surprisingly, it keeps this part of the city safe. Despite a majority of the residence being of immigrant back around (primarily Italian in this area), the buildings are in fair condition, and the streets are relatively clean for New York City. However, I wouldn't send Amelia here alone, and that isn't to say I don't think she can handle herself. I wouldn't like to be alone here either.

Neither Alfred nor Amelia seem to mind being around this crowd, and while I think that's foolish, it's also a bit admirable. Not too many Americans these days are all too accepting when it comes to immigrants. Especially Germans. Gilbert and I were very lucky to find them.

Alfred breaks my thoughts with a nudge to the ribs, "Look, Lud, it's your people."

He points to a sign reading "Fresh Sauerkraut". Perhaps I spoke too soon.

"Say-erkra-oot?" Amelia says, squinting at the sign, "What's that?"

"Pickled cabbage," I answer, giving her the proper pronunciation as well, "It's a type of food from back home."

"It's also Lud's secret alias," Alfred says, ducking down to Amelia's height with a grin, "Sour-Kraut."

Amelia giggles, "That's Detective Sour-Kraut to you!"

I hate this family.

Distracting them from making anymore particularly offensive comments, I crane my neck to look down the block. "Is that the Vargas' down there, Alfred?"

Alfred sighs down a laugh, wiping his eye, "Ah, yeah, I think so. It's pretty close to that pawn shop if I remember correctly. You know, the one with the blonde? Sort of talks like you? Short and angry?"

"You don't mean that sweet little girl in there, do you?" Amelia asks incredulously, "She was so shy!"

"Nah, nah," Alfred says, taking Amelia's hand as we head down the block, "Her brother. Bash? That can't be right...somethin' foreign..."

Before Alfred can figure it out, we've approached the restaurant. The Vargas' apparently have a taste for flair, I notice, glancing up at the vibrant sign hanging from their storefront. Most places around here have signs in the window, and usually aren't green, white, and red with...very detailed paintings of pizza and selected other dishes, which I assume are Italian as well. All in all, it's hard to miss this place and the name.

Unsurprisingly, the lights are off in the restaurant, and the closed sign is up on the door, denying us entry. However, the rooms above the restaurant are lit, giving the clear notion that the Vargas' (at least, one of them), is in fact home. Considering all the excitement earlier, I would have assumed Amelia and Alfred would jump at the chance to ring them, but no one moves.

I sigh. I do far too much sighing when it comes to these two.

The buzzer rings, and instead of answering, a face appears to glance down at us from above, disappearing from the curtains before I so much as blink. From inside, the loud, hurried thumps echo from what I believe to be the staircase in the back, and two legs, followed by the rest of a young man's body, appear. Before I can get a good look at him, he's at the door, the bell ringing behind him as he approaches me.

He's slim, lanky, and only a few centimeters shorter than I am. His hair mirrors storybook sunsets, light auburn curtaining his honey colored eyes as he smiles at me, breath short. I can smell spices on this clothing, and feel the corners of my mouth struggle to move as if the wind has been knocked out of me. Something about him breathes of a sunny hillside, and for a moment, I can almost hear the bees buzzing against flowers in the dimly lit sky.

Scratch that, I can definitely hear buzzing.

My finger has been on the buzzer this entire time. God dammit.

"You can let go now, Lud", Alfred whispers, knocking my hand down.

The man chuckles nervously, brushing his hair from his eyes, "Sorry, I should've answered you upstairs! I just don't get a lot of calls around here, you know? Actually, Nonno told me I should be careful who I answer the buzzer for, but you three looked really nice, so I figured it couldn't hurt. My name's Feliciano!"

He sticks a hand out in introduction. Frustratingly, I can't get myself to move. Alfred reaches over me to accept it, "Don't mind him, he's bad at social obligations. Alfred F. Jones. This is my sister, Amelia. And the idiot staring at you is Ludwig Beilschmidt. Pleasure's all his."

I clear my throat, shaking my head, "My apologies."

Feliciano laughs, "Don't worry about it! We all have our moments. Nonno's always said 'People don't need wine to act drunk!', or...something like that anyway. Can I help you with something?"

An incredible first impression. I appear to be a drunken idiot. "We're interested in asking you a few questions," I say, a sick feeling to my stomach as I realize who Feliciano is, "Would you mind giving us a few minutes of your time?"

Feliciano's face flickers with unease momentarily, but he smiles, and declares, "Of course not! Come on, we'll take a seat in the restaurant."

I can't help but feel he's been "questioned" like this before from a less than favorable crowd. His trust makes me wary. Alfred seems to be thinking the same thing, and offers a smile, "Thank you."

The restaurant itself isn't much to look at. White walls with red and green lines. Advertising for local businesses hanging idly. A clean counter at the back for taking orders. Our trio follows Feliciano to the first table silently, sitting to face him as he joins us. Feliciano glances back at the counter, and bites his lip, "You're not here to threaten us again, are you?"

Just as expected. Amelia's lip wavers, and I hear her whisper something like "Threaten this guy?" I'd like to agree, but I can't say I should. We are, in fact, questioning a murder suspect, and that requires pushing my feelings aside. Wait. My feelings? There are no feelings. Murder suspect. Male. Off limits. Beilschmidt.

I shake my head apologetically, "No, Mr. Vargas. Though we would like to ask you a few questions pertaining to that. Can we assume you'll answer truthfully?"

Alfred shoots me a look, "Don't say that so coldly! Can't you see he's scared?"

Feliciano raises his hands, "It's alright, really! He's got no reason to trust me!" he laughs nervously, "I'll be as truthful as I can."

"Good," I say, pulling out a notebook from my pockets, "Your full name?"

Amelia snatches the notebook from me, "We already know that! Give me this thing!"

Alfred seems exasperated as well, and sighs, "Listen, Vargas, the reason we're here is because someone from the Braginsky's seems to think you had it in you to kill one of their members. For 'initiation purposes'. They also seem to think you're a part of your grandfather's mafia."

Feliciano looks misty-eyed, "You think I killed someone?"

Both Amelia and I blurt out "No!" before I catch myself and cough, "Obviously not until we have reason to believe you did."

"M-Murder! Me!" Feliciano says, wringing his hands, "The Braginsky's have been threatening my family for months! I'm surprised they haven't murdered one of us yet! Nonno's been so worried...and now they think I've done something? It doesn't matter if I haven't or not, this is their chance, isn't it? To have something on us? I don't want to die! I'm still a virgin! Who would look after the restaurant if something happened to one of us? What would Mama say?"

About seventy-five percent of that was unnecessary information. I'm not saying which parts. Amelia reaches across the table to take his hands in an effort to calm him down, "We're not going to let them hurt you, okay? Even if you did murder someone, we'd protect you!"

Amelia.

"You'd do that for me?" Feliciano says with a sniff as Amelia pulls out her handkerchief, "Ah, being told that by a beautiful Signorina..."

Alfred snorts from beside me and whispers, "Stop glaring at my sister." Was I glaring at Amelia? I was certain I was searching for a piece of lint on her dress. Alfred has absolutely no idea what he's talking about.

"Mr. Vargas," I implore, really, because we ought to be focusing, "We need to know everything the Braginsky's have said to your family. Any information you have is useful."

Feliciano honks noisily into Amelia's borrowed handkerchief. Her smile wavers, and I'm nearly certain that last back pat was more aggressive than necessary. "There isn't much," Feliciano says, "Mostly they just demand Nonno fesses up and fights them, but obviously we aren't going t-"

Thunderous footsteps come rumbling down the stairs, interrupting Feliciano. Oddly enough, I can see a look of distemperment on Feliciano's face. And, apparently, a second look of distemperment on Feliciano's clone racing towards me with murderous intent. There's a hand at my collar yanking me upwards, but the strength isn't enough to pull me from my seat, just constrict my airways. I stifle a breath. "The fuck do you think you're doing, harassing my brother again?" he sneers, but the rest of the group shouts "Lovino!" and different variations of, "He's turning colors!", and he releases me.

I would have questioned the tears at the corners of his eyes if I had been able to see past my own, I think, rubbing my throat tenderly, but I doubt that's something you want to bring up with this guy. Feliciano's standing, I notice, my eyes coming back into focus, and he shouts some sort of line of Italian at Lovino. Alfred leans over to me, and claps a hand on my back, "You alright there, Ludge?"

I nod and wave him off. Mostly to get his hands off of my back. Not helping. Lovino has finished his rapid return of Italian, and turns back to me, "Hasn't anyone taught you to fucking announce yourself in someone else's home?" Lovino says, but there's less of a bite to his words, and I'm 99.9% sure that's because of Feliciano.

"Ludwig Beilschmidt," I croak, "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"I told you," Feliciano says, crossing his arms, "Can't you trust me, Lovi?"

"He's a goddamn Kraut!" Lovino snaps, "You're making friends with the Krauts now?"

"That's enough!"

Amelia's scream stops Lovino in his tracks. He apparently hadn't noticed her until now, and I can see his expression soften at the sight of her. Something like an expression of a terrible stomach ache comes over his face before he quietly says, "Mi dispiace…"

"Apologize to Ludwig," Amelia says, "You have no right to call him those things."

"Amelia, it's alright," I start, but she cuts me off with a glare. God help me if I ever marry.

Feliciano seems to agree with Amelia, and has his eyes glued on me, most likely trying to assess the damage to my throat. Or he's...admiring me? I'm not sure how to read that expression, but the moment I try, he notices that we're staring straight at each other, and turns away. Lovino doesn't notice, and sheepishly, bitterly, offers me an apology. I accept it.

Amelia doesn't seem thoroughly pleased by it, but sits back down in her seat, regardless. There's a certain proud look to Alfred at the moment. Brothers.

"So?" Lovino says, staring at me.

I blink up at him. "What?"

"What the hell are you here for?" Lovino snaps.

"Not to be strangled, I'd imagine," Alfred says with a laugh.

Personally I can't believe he's asking the one with a damaged throat, but from what I've seen from Lovino, my beliefs don't correlate with his actions. Perhaps the murderer isn't as far from Feliciano as we thought.

Somehow, Alfred seems to look at me as if he knows what I'm thinking. He shakes his head, whispers, "Not him," and with a wink that says "You'll see," turns back to Lovino.

"We're here about the murder of Toris Laurinaitis," Alfred says, "From the Braginsky family."

Lovino's eyes widen, but he hardens his expression once again. "The Braginsky's?"

"The very ones," Alfred says, "And they seem to think your brother was involved."

Apparently Lovino finds that even less believable than we do, because he lets out a barking laugh, "Feliciano? Femminile Feliciano? Damn idiots have finally lost it."

"We believe they're trying to pin the crime on your family as means to force you into some sort of...organized crime war," I say, graciously ignoring Feliciano fighting down a blush, "It's very doubtful that they actually believe him capable."

"They've tried everything," Feliciano pips up, "They came in once claiming we sent them a box of empty bullet shells instead of pizza. I don't even know what those look like!"

Somehow I don't doubt that.

"Yeah, and that one putrid ring leader they've got going always makes me fish out the anchovies from the back like he doesn't know I hate them. Fuckin' smiling the entire time he's in here. Can't use the English language worth horseshit."

Feliciano looks as though he's holding back a joke, but his mouth straightens as Alfred says, "Ivan?"

"Yeah, that bastard," Lovino says, waving an arm, "Big nose. Sort of fat."

"Lovino," Amelia says warningly.

Lovino scoffs, but says quietly, "Big-boned, then."

I can't help but wonder why the Braginsky's want to pick a fight with the Vargas' to begin with. Amelia would make a better enemy.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun settles low in the sky by the time we make our way out of the Vargas' residence, Alfred insisting that Mrs. Jones would be threatening to "mount our asses on the wall" if we didn't get Amelia back home by dusk. Lovino agrees wholeheartedly, but not for the same reason, considering he threatened to mount my ass on the wall if I didn't leave as soon as possible. I'm sure he's forgiven me for imposing on their home, but I'm not so sure he's forgiven my heritage.

That's not uncommon around here, really. I made a comment to Gilbert about changing our names to something American once. He told me I was a "damn fool if I thought that was going to change anything," and "someone has to be proud of being German, and I'll be damned if it isn't us." I can't say I understand him, but I've never brought it up again. Regardless, I'm not much of a "Luke Smith".

We make it halfway to the apartment before my stomach flutters unpleasantly. Feliciano saw us out as we left, sending us along with a quickly made pizza and a loaf of bread, and we all smiled uncomfortably as Lovino grimaced and hesitantly checked the amount of flour they had left. Alfred said we'd have to make a point to stop by with diner food this week. I'm not sure if Lovino's the sort of person who'd eat diner food, much less something I'd bring him, but I offer to go with Alfred when the time comes. God knows we'd be back there soon.

More importantly (and the reason for the uncomfortable wavering in my abdomen), was what Feliciano said to me before I left. Amelia and Alfred were a few feet down the sidewalk when he called me back to the door, and whispered quietly in my ear, "Please don't get yourself hurt for me."

I was quiet for a moment, but shook my head. "We're doing this for a client." As if that was an answer. An excuse. A reassurance.

Feliciano's brow furrowed at that. "You trust them enough not to lead you into…?" He can't seem to finish that, but I know what he's getting at.

"Not entirely," I said, and I stop myself before asking "What's the worst that could happen?" because I know what the worst is and I've spent days thinking about the worst of this and right now, Feliciano doesn't need to hear someone telling him that the worst doesn't exist.

He bit his lip. "You really don't need to do this."

"No," I said, "No, I do."

Apparently not the answer he wanted. Or perhaps it was. He's hard to read.

Feliciano bid me goodbye after that. I think there was a part of him that wanted to pull me back inside. It's hard to swallow when I realize that, and Alfred's been glancing over at me every few seconds, waiting to ask a question I already know is coming.

"What did Feliciano want?"

There it is.

I manage a swallow, "Nothing, really."

Alfred's shoe scuffs the sidewalk. "Didn't seem like nothing."

"Aren't Italians known for making something out of nothing?" I reply, turning over the loaf of bread in my hands, "We're nearly home."

Something tells me I've broken some sort of rule with Alfred just now, and he's going to treat me coldly until I give him details. Really, I don't know what else to say but "He's worried we might get ourselves killed for him, and also might have a thing for me," which is taboo between this group for a multitude of reasons, not that I think Alfred would think any less of me for one of those things, but he just might for bringing up the possibility of death to Amelia.

It's funny, really, how illogical the brain gets in moments of stress, when you're expected to be the most logical. I can't stop myself from replaying the closeness between us prior to a whisper about death, and if that's not illogical, I don't know what is.

Arlovskaya is waiting on the steps for us as the diner comes into focus. I can see Alfred's shoulders stiffen, and he grabs Amelia by her own. "I haven't been waiting long," she says, as if that's supposed to reassure us.

Mrs. Jones appears from the door. "Alfred, Ludwig, Miss. Arlovskaya came by just a moment ago to speak with you an-oh! She's still here! Well. That solves that. Amelia, come inside, dear, it's getting cold."

Amelia says, "Okay, Ma!" but Alfred and I know before we even manage a look at her that she's going to give us Hell for this later.

They disappear behind the doorway before Arlovskaya speaks, "You visited the Vargas' today."

The fact that this is a statement and not a question unnerves me. Alfred says, "Yes," but I say, "How did you know?" and I can see the confusion begin on Alfred's brow.

"Informant," Arlovskaya says, and horribly, I can feel my earlier pity for her disappear. They've been spying on the Vargas' this entire time.

I glare at her, and the bite of guilt hits me when I see her back away warily. "I am paying you for this, remember," she says, "Protecting you."

"Can't trust us enough to carry out our investigations undisturbed?" I ask.

Her eyes sadden, "You know I cannot stop them myself," she says, but doesn't add that she'd like to. I grit my teeth.

I know. Deep down, I knew that from the start of this conversation. I can't quell my misplaced anger at this situation, however. But I do bite my tongue. Alfred says, "What do they think?"

"Brother did not take kindly to being called "big-nosed" and "fat"," she says, staring at her nails, "Says maybe Lovino person did it. I tell him no, but he says maybe we should pay Lovino another visit."

Alfred scoffs, "You know he's all bark and no bite."

Oddly, Arlovskaya seems to disagree. "He has no right to insult my brother."

"Your brother is part of the same group who happens to threaten the safety and lives of Lovino's family," I spit, "He's got plenty of right."

A dangerous look comes over Arlovskaya, "He and Katyusha are the only family I have. You know nothing of where we come from. Where did your promise of helping me go?"

"I know nothing of where you come from?" I round on her, "Do you have any idea...Do you know what my brother and I went through to get to America? Do you see us involved in murders? Do you see us threatening families to get what we want?"

"I see you eating plenty and living in safe home," Arlovskaya says plainly, "If you would like to say more, I have no problem giving you something to complain about."

Part of me wants to ask if that's a threat, but she looks more like a wounded dog than anything, and I shut my mouth. Alfred seems relieved. "I promise to do what I can to keep Vargas' safe," she says quietly, "Do not think I want them dead."

Alfred says, "Of course we don't think that!" but I'm too stubborn to agree.

I'm being an idiot about this, I know. But really, that only makes me angrier.

"Where are you going to go from here?" Arlovskaya asks.

Alfred looks at me. "I figured Lud had that planned out."

I shrug my shoulders, "I've got something." A lie. My thoughts are focused on finding that brother of hers and letting him know just what intimidation feels like.

"Good," Arlovskaya says, "I will check up on you soon. If you want to come see me, use this address."

She hands Alfred a card. Vaguely, I wonder if she's asking us to come speak to the family, but then my mind drifts to pinning them to walls and beating sense into them...and I shake my head. I'm not a violent man, but I'll be damned if I don't wish I was sometimes.

"Thanks, Nat," Alfred says with a smile, and I can see Arlovskaya straighten in surprise.

She nods courteously, eyes Alfred with curiosity, and makes her way down the sidewalk.

Alfred sighs, "What a woman."

"Flirting with the enemy, Jones?" I say, holding the door open as he makes his way past me, rolling his eyes.

"You're one to talk."

He's silent for the rest of the trip inside, and we don't say our usual goodnights as we make it to our rooms. As I swing the door open to my room, Gilbert's voice greets me from the couch. I had forgotten about him not going into work today.

"You're still awake?" I ask, but I regret my words when I catch the look on his face.

"Been out having fun?" Gilbert says, and that terrible parental stare scans me for information.

No, but I can't say that honestly. "Yes. We took Amelia out for pizza," I say, and start towards my bedroom.

Gilbert stops me, "You're not going anywhere until you tell me what the Hell is going on."

"There's leftovers downstairs if you're really that burned up about this," I try, but Gilbert only stares me down, and I find myself seated next to him in the armchair.

"So?"

I sigh. "You realized the restaurant wouldn't be open on Sunday didn't you?"

"Catholic school tends to push those things," Gilbert says, "Are you going to tell me what's going on or not?"

"Do you want the short version or the long version?" I ask, slumping forward into my hands.

He puts his feet up on the coffee table. I grimace. He shoots me a look. "I've got time."

I fill Gilbert in on Arlovskaya, and his face looks darker than I've ever seen when I tell him who we're working for, exactly, and that I've gotten Amelia and Alfred roped into this, kids of the family who took us in, and I find that the parts about the Vargas are stuck in my throat by the time I get the rest of the story out. Gilbert doesn't move for a long time. When he does, it's slow, as if he's gained fifty years. I feel guilty for it.

"Wasn't the job at the diner enough for you?" Gilbert says, disappointment hanging in his voice, "You know why I kept you from the factory, and you went out to find a job that could get us all killed. I thought you were smarter than this, Ludwig."

Full-name basis. Not a good sign.

"It wasn't supposed to turn out this way," I explain, though I can't really say I want to, "Amelia and I found pets, lost jewelry, things like that."

"And you didn't turn that woman down?" Gilbert asks, "You didn't tell her 'I can't put the lives of myself and my family at stake for your goddamn problems'? You just went along with it?"

My lips tighten. He's right, and I can't argue with him, because God knows I think the same things he's preaching. Gilbert's head droops. "You were the one Opa said he wouldn't have to worry about. Ludwig 'Perfekt' Beilschmidt. Off getting into organized crime because he doesn't know how to say no to someone in need."

"It's 'Wilfried', actually," I mutter.

Gilbert looks at me, and I can't tell if he's holding back a smile or a grimace. "I knew keeping my baby brother from the factory wasn't going to work. You always gotta involve yourself some how, don't you?"

I shrug, "It's more or less like the world finds ways to involve me."

"Yeah, well," Gilbert says, flicking his lighter for a cigarette, "Learn to tell the world 'no'. You're not invincible. That's your big brother's job."

He puffs and offers me a light. I decline. He knows I hate that habit of his.

"So?"

Gilbert cocks an eyebrow at me. "What?" I say, assuming this is going to be another round of "Go and tell those mafia members you can't play with them anymore."

"Why were you at the Vargas' today?" he says, as if it's an obvious question (which it very well is considering I had kept from answering it earlier).

I let out a long, heavy sigh that I was unaware I had built up. "They think one of the brothers is a suspect."

"What?" Gilbert asks incredeously, "What? The Vargas brothers? We're talking about the same Vargas' aren't we? Nearly twins? Ones got the disposition of a rabid dog? The other's a bit of a putz but he's-"

"Kind."

"Niedlich."

I raise an eyebrow at Gilbert.

He shrugs, "Stating the facts."

"He isn't a 'putz,'" I say, defensively, "He's…"

Well, he's a bit of a putz.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Gilbert says, rubbing out his cigarette, "I'm just saying. Could probably lift him with one arm. Might as well start dressing like a woman, if you want my honest opinion."

"And you're calling someone else a putz," I say.

"He'd make a nice housewife."

I grimace, "Gilbert."

"Anyway, they think it's Lovino or something, right?" Gilbert says, flicking his cigarette into the ash tray.

"Feliciano," I say, and Gilbert holds down a laugh.

"Those Braginsky's are losing their grip," he says, with a snicker, "You know, that Ivan guy who works at the factory with me came up today and asked me if I'd like to 'join his family', like it was a prize. Punched him right in that huge ass nose of his."

"You mean you mumbled 'no' and had to sit down after your nose started bleeding from stress," I say.

"Details," Gilbert shrugs, looking all too put-off by my comment.

"We're going to see the Braginsky's this week," I say, avoiding his gaze.

He glowers, as expected. I was avoiding this. "No, you're not."

"We are if we're going to solve this murder."

Gilbert straightens. "To Hell with the murder, Ludwig! It was just some idiot kid that stuck his nose where it didn't belong! You don't need to be involved!"

I swallow.

"They'll kill Feliciano."

Gilbert pulls out another cigarette. "Yeah? And why should we care? I get that you want to play some theatrical hero, but you need to leave the dangerous business to me. What am I supposed to tell Opa when you wind up getting yourself killed? 'Whoops, sorry Opa! Guess I'm alone here in America on the streets again because my baby brother went and got himself and the Jones' kids offed. Hope I make it till December!'"

"I know what I'm doing," I snap, a bit too harshly, "You can't stop me from helping them. You're at work all the time."

"Yeah," Gilbert puffs, "To keep us fed. Damn me. Clearly I'm the one who fucked up."

I can't argue with him, even if I wanted to. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

"I'm still continuing with this investigation."

Gilbert takes a long drag. "I know."

Silence.

Gilbert is the second person who refuses me a good night that evening.


End file.
